


Steps to Correction

by RavenFeather23



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Non-Sexual Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenFeather23/pseuds/RavenFeather23
Summary: Gil Arroyo is like a father to Malcolm. Which means when Malcolm steps out of line or puts himself in danger, Gil makes it his job to correct him. If this means our troubled consultant has trouble sitting afterwards, then so be it.(You should know, in my story, Malcolm is on medication that makes it so he can sleep safely without being restrained. I just like it better that way.)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

When Gil spanks me, there is a pattern, a flow, to it.

I’m not claiming that Gil is predictable, or that I am smarter than him. All things considered; I am far from it. After all, if that were the case, I wouldn’t be standing in the corner right now with my underwear around my ankles, bare, red butt facing the room, feeling like a little boy who now fully regrets his behavior.

I am merely saying that there is a ritual to it. And deep down, I am thankful that Gil spanked me for disobeying him, I’m also grateful that he is willing to follow this pattern so that I feel more at ease. Maybe it will make more sense if I just start from the beginning and explain it to you.

Step one: Confrontation.

I walked back towards the patrol cars. Everyone else is busy slapping on the handcuffs and making sure nothing is missed and everything is correctly documented and nothing is overlooked. Gil hurried over, his eyes just slightly wider than normal, telling me that he was worried or had just suffered a fright or something. He grabbed my shoulders and looked me over, scanning for injuries.

“Are you hurt?”

I shrugged carelessly. “Just bumps and bruises.”

“What did I say about going in without backup?” His voice dropped in tone, growing stern.

“There was no time.” I protested.

“When it comes to your safety, Kid, there is always time.” His brows knitted together.

“We’ll talk about this more at my place. Let’s go.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward his car. My heels automatically started to dig into the asphalt; I had reason to suspect that when Gil said “Talk” he didn’t mean what the words implied.

“Don’t make a scene.” Gil’s grip on my arm tightened as he spoke through his teeth. “Let’s go now.”

I forced my reluctant feet forward and Gil escorted me to his car.

The drive home was tense. Now that the adrenaline is leaving my system, the pain from my minor injuries was beginning to make itself known. My knee was throbbing from when one of the guys kicked it out from under me. My ribs felt tender, not bad enough for me to suspect a fracture or break, but they are definitely bruised, and my stomach hurt from the few kicks I hadn’t successfully shielded it from. There’s a small knot on the back of my head that hurt and was giving me a decent headache.

I wished I could grab the Tylenol Gil keeps in the glove compartment, but Gil would see and start fussing over me. Instead, I tried to shift subtly in my seat to try and get comfortable.

“Get some Tylenol.” Gil barked, his eyes barely flickering off the road. Somehow, he always notices everything

“I’m okay.”

“You were limping slightly when you came out of the building.” Gil stated. “Your hand keeps moving up to rub your temple, like you always do when your head hurts, and you wince every time you move to try to get more comfortable. Take a damn Tylenol.”

I might be a natural profiler, but honestly, that is almost nothing to the years of experience Gil has from being a cop.

I gave a slight nod and reached for the small compartment where the pills are kept. I moved too quickly and my ribs loudly voiced their displeasure with my behavior against the seatbelt and a pained grunt escaped me.

Gil’s eyes darted over at me, his frown deepening with growing concern. Great.

I tried again, this time, prepared for the pain and get out the small, over-the-counter bottle without showing any signs of discomfort, at least I hope not. I choked down two pills and leaned back in my seat. It usually takes about twenty minutes for it to kick in. Every bump and shake the road caused the car, jarred me and only caused the pain to grow. It was going to be a long car ride.

Step two: The “Talk.”

Common terminology used by parents, guardians, and other authority figures is “Discussion” or “Conversation.” I never cared for those terms, as they gave the false impression that both parties would get equal opportunity to share their thoughts and opinions on the matter.

But, like all children, I learned quickly that when grown-ups used these terms it was a one-way lecture. You, the child, would sit, still and attentive, while your parent, principal, whoever it happened to be, delivered a longwinded soliloquy. And when your attention inevitably slipped to a spider in the corner, or the obnoxious zit on the speaker’s nose, they get annoyed and frustrated, as if they can’t understand what you could possibly find more interesting than what they have to say right now.

Gil, however doesn’t drone on and on. He gets to the point and simply reiterates exactly what I did that earned his ire, making sure I understand perfectly and that is that. This time, the talk is delayed, but it is still inevitable.

He helped me out of the car, despite my protests that I was fine and could walk unaided. Once inside, he steered me into the guest bedroom and had me sit on the bed. From the drawers, he pulled out a pair of comfortable sweats and a shirt. He keeps a few clothes of that nature in the drawers for me for when I stay over.

“Undress, but don’t put these on until I get a chance to look at you.”

He knows me too well. I don’t make it a habit to tell people when I’m hurt or otherwise unwell. Gil knows that the only way he will know exactly what is wrong is to see it for himself.

He stepped into the adjoining bathroom and got out the first-aid kit. I was still struggling to remove my jacket without hurting my tender ribs. Without a word, Gil freed my arms from the confining material before helping me with the rest.

There was a time where I was uncomfortable with Gil seeing me in nothing but my underwear, but not any more really. I only don’t like it because now I’m vulnerable. It’s impossible to pretend to be tough and arrogant when you are exposed. Every scrape, every darkening bruise, every slightly bleeding cut, Gil could see it all.

So, I surrendered. My walls crumbled and the exhaustion and pain shone through my eyes and seeped from my skin. Instinctively, I fought it, but I didn’t have the strength. Gil’s stern eyes softened and he sat down next to me. His calloused hands were gentle. The Tylenol was slowly doing its job, the pain was duller. I was growing drowsy and Gil could see it.

Once he was certain I wasn’t seriously injured and had disinfected and bandaged every little wound, he helped me into the more comfortable clothes and tucked me into the warm bed. He gave me the new prescription that kept the night terrors and insomnia at bay and placed an ice pack on my bruised ribs. “Get some rest.”

I started to shake my head. I don’t want to sleep; I never do.

Instead of scolding me or arguing with me about why I needed sleep, Gil just let out a soft sigh and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers ran through my hair soothingly, forcing my eyes to drift shut. I’d open them, only for them to slip closed again, and again, until, finally, they stayed shut and I fell into a quiet, peaceful sleep.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

When I woke up, I had to admit, I felt a bit better. I was still sore and achy, but I felt a bit more relaxed and refreshed. I did wince when I remembered that Gil and I still had to have our “Talk.” I had long ago stopped hoping that if it got delayed long enough that Gil would just forget about it or change his mind. That never happened and never would.

My stomach rumbled. I had skipped lunch and it was now after seven. I was still trying to convince myself to go down and face the music so I could also fill my empty stomach, when Gil appeared in the doorway.

“Food is ready. Come on down.”

I sighed and slowly eased myself up.

Gil fixed me a plate and we ate quietly. Anxiety pooling in my gut was making it hard to eat. Normally, Gil never made me wait this long. He might send me to my room to stew for an hour or so, or make me stand in the corner if I have been extra willful. I was getting to the point to where I just wanted this over-with.

Once about half of my food was gone, and it was clear I was just pushing the rest around with my fork, Gil took out plates and put them on the counter.

“Come on, Malcom. Let’s put this behind us.”

I slowly stood up and followed Gil to the couch. He sat down and put his hands on my waist, steering me to stand in between his knees. I had a hard time pulling my eyes away from the paddle resting nonchalantly on the arm. It is only slightly larger than Gil’s hand and about as thick as my pinky. It has six small holes drilled into it and stings like a you-know-what. It is the implement I dread the most. the wooden spoon or even the belt don’t strike the fear of God into my heart the way that nasty piece of wood does.

Gil only uses it when he wants to give me a particularly memorable lesson. As soon as I see it, I know I’ve screwed up majorly.

“How’s your head?” Gil asked gently.

I winced at the reminder. It is throbbing in tandem with my pulse. “It hurts, but it’s not too bad.”

“You don’t feel dizzy or nauseous?”

I shook my head.

“Alright. We are going to do things a little differently today. I want you to tell me what you did and why it was wrong. Tomorrow, you will write me a three-page paper about the importance of following orders and the necessity of waiting for back-up. You are also benched for two weeks. You will still consult on cases, but you will be doing from the office. I am understood?”

I groaned and pouted. “Gil, I’ll go nuts. Please don’t bench me.”

“Shall I make it three weeks?”

“No.” I sulked.

“Good, now, let’s move on. Tell me why we are having this discussion.”

I let out a little huff. I’m not sure which is worse, sitting through a scalding lecture about my errors, or having to list them myself. “I found out who the serial killer is and where they were going next. I called you and you told me to not engage and to wait for back-up. I saw him go in and was afraid that you wouldn’t show up in time and he’d get away, so I went in on my own.”

“And as a result, he very nearly got away anyway. I told you that we were less than ten minutes out. And correct me if I’m wrong, but last I checked, Malcom, you don’t carry a weapon or wear a vest. Am I correct?”

I fidgeted. I hate it when Gil uses that patronizing tone and speaks to me like I’m a child. It makes me feel small.

“Yes, Gil.”

“And yet, despite the fact that you were unarmed and had no protection whatsoever, you still thought it was a wise decision to approach a serial killer who we suspected was armed without anyone to protect you. And what happened?”

I felt my face grow hot. “He kicked my ass.” I admitted ruefully.

“And held a gun to your head.”

“That too.”

“You got incredibly lucky, Malcom. Do you realize that?”

“Yes.”

“Anything to say in your defense?” (As if that were possible.)

“No, sir.”

“Do you think I would be in the wrong in putting you over my knee right now and spanking you for your behavior today?”

“No, sir.” I grumbled.

“Alright then.” His fingers went under my waistband and swiftly pulled down my sweats and underwear before he guided me over his lap. He lifted up my legs and scooted me so that the couch supported all of me. Usually, my feet stay on the floor. That way, if I kick too much, Gil can pin them down with one of his legs. I quickly realized that he made this change to take some strain off my bruised ribs.

“You can use that pillow to support your chest. I don’t want to hurt your ribs.”

I grabbed the cushion and tucked it under my chest. It took a few moments and a few readjustments to get it in the right spot.

“You good?” Gil asked once I stopped moving around.

I frowned. “I… guess.”

As good as someone laying bare-assed over someone’s lap, waiting to be spanked can be.

“Good.” I felt Gil shift to pick up the paddle and he tapped it against my bottom, warning me that he was about to begin.

Even with the warning, the first smack still caught me off guard. I can never seem to remember how much that wretched thing hurts. I let out an undignified yelp and my toes dug into the couch.

Gil spanked in a pattern only known to him; reddening my whole ass and sit-spots and the tops of my thighs. I tried to lie still and take it quietly, but I should know by now that Gil will always reduce me to a sorry, sobbing, little boy.

It felt like Gil had been spanking me forever – in reality, it was only three minutes – my bottom was on fire and I couldn’t keep my feet still. I clutched the pillow desperately as tears burned my eyes.

“So, Malcom?” Gil asked. I shuddered with dread. I hate this part. The Q-and-A during the spanking. Even though it means there will be longer pauses between smacks, or if necessary, Gil will stop completely so that I can answer. “The next time you are within the vicinity of a serial killer and are told explicitly to wait for back-up are you going to disobey orders and rush in anyway?”

I hate this part because, up until now, I am able to hide how close Gil has brought me to crying. I can press my face into the pillow or couch cushions or even my own arms and keep that little shred of my dignity. But once I am forced to open my mouth, Gil can hear my sobs and I can’t stop myself from begging, pleading and apologizing profusely. But I know that if I chose to “Brat out” and refuse to answer, Gil will spank my thighs and even my inner thighs until I cooperate.

“N-no, Gil! I-I promise I-I will w-wait!”

“Even if you think there is a chance he might get away before we get there?”

“E-Even th-then! O-OW! P-please, Gil!”

“You’ll trust us to catch the guy?”

“Yes! I’ll trust you!”

“What will happen if you don’t, Malcom?”

_Oh, no! Don’t make me say it! Please, don’t make me say it!_

I whined and kicked my feet against the couch and was rewarded with three stinging smacks to my inner-thighs. I howled.

“You know better than to throw a fit, Malcom.” Three more smacks found my inner-thighs. “Answer or I’ll give you six more.”

“Y-you’ll s-sp-spank me again!” I wailed.

“Yes, I will. Because I do not take your safety lightly, nor will I allow you to. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! P-please! N-no more! No more! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll be good! I’ll be g-g-goo-od! I will listen! I promise!”

“Almost done.” Gil told me, his hand rubbing my back.

The last bit is always the worst. Gil concentrated the paddle on my sit-spots and thighs, making sure that I remember this lesson every time I sit down. I cried and sobbed without restraint, not even trying to hide it anymore. After about thirty or forty smacks, Gil finally put down the paddle. He rubbed my back and neck and ran his fingers though my hair until I cry myself out.

“Go stand in the corner now, Malcom.” He told me gently but firmly. My sweats and underwear have almost been kicked off all the way, it’s only stuck on my left ankle. He slid it off and places the clothing on the couch. He hates sending me to the corner, especially after a harsh spanking, but he knows that the lesson sticks longer if I’m forced to stare at the blank, boring wall with nothing to distract me but my sore bottom and have a good, long think about my actions.

He helped me up onto my wobbly legs and into the corner.

“Do you need your stool?”

If I am too wobbly on my feet, Gil has me sit on my naughty-stool. – I did not name it! – I hate sitting on it. It is just a hard, wooden seat and I am not allowed a cushion. Gil only makes me sit on it if I act out during a spanking or if he thinks my legs won’t hold me. This is one of the rare times he gives me a choice.

I shook my head no. Not only because I really, really don’t want to sit on it, but because I know my legs aren’t that shaky.

I leaned on him as he walked me to the corner and I rest my hands against my sides. I know that if Gil catches my hands inching back to rub my bottom, I will get twenty extra smacks and my hands will have to go on my head.

Gil moved away and set a timer. I never know how long I have to stand there. sometimes it is longer than others, but I know it is never longer than thirty minutes, unless I do something to get it lengthened.

The minutes have ticked by at an agonizing pace. I hate that my red bottom is visible for the room to see and it hurts terribly. The day’s events play in a constant loop in my head, focusing on the worry and disappointment on Gil’s face. Tears spill down my face and drip onto the wood floor at my bare feet, if they don’t run down my neck where my shirt soaks them up. I wish I could turn back the clock and do things differently.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I don’t hear Gil’s phone vibrate, signaling my corner-time has come to an end – not that I can come out of it until Gil gives me permission. – I am startled by Gil’s gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Shush. It’s just me.” He says at just above a whisper.

He turns me slightly and I just about throw myself into his arms, soaking up every molecule of comfort he’s giving. Gil lets me sob into his shoulder, not caring that I am soaking his shirt is tears and snot and probably droll. When it is clear that I’m not going to calm down for a while, Gil bends down puts his arm under my knees, carrying me bridal-style back to the couch. He holds me in his lap for a long time, until my tears run out. He already set out a box of Kleenex, a cup of cooling tea, and the lotion he always puts on my freshly-spanked bottom. With the tissues, he mops up my face and has me blow my nose. He puts the tea in my hands and encourages me to drink it. Once I empty the cup, he eases me back over his lap, this time to apply the lotion. It hurts at first, the pressure of his hands on my bruising bottom, but the cream takes the heat out and moisturizes the now very dry skin. He also rubs it on my back and legs. It never fails to put me nearly to sleep. I’m only just barely conscious when he finishes and carries me to my bedroom. He puts my sweats back on me, and tucks me in. I’m asleep before he turns off the lamp.

**End Chapter**

_Thanks so much for all the kudos!_

_Things have been really busy so thanks so much for being patient with me. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint._

_Please let me know what you think, I love hearing from you!_


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